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A long lost precious, little thing

I lifted my paintbrush,
dipped it into the acrylic,
and began to explore.

I moved with unknowing ease,
shaping my creation not with my brain—
but with my heart.

I blended and sharpened edges,
my paintbrush dirty,
my bedroom closed,
my clothes and skin stained—
but my heart felt free.

Like little me,
who once escaped the world
with her rough, raw sketches.

It brought a joy out of me.
It felt like a forest,
and I walked and walked
until I stumbled into a home I had forgotten.

There was no darkness,
no pain,
nothing else—
just me
and my brush
exploring.

No matter how many errors,
I could re-brush,
cover it up,
work on its healing
instead of leaving it behind.

I painted today.
I called it
"Fragility Meets Cosmic Quantum Mysticism"

And I didn’t stop there.
I plan to do more—
to create more.
Because no matter how many times I fail,
I can begin again
with just a splash of colour.

I write and paint now.
Yes,
I write and paint.
What a journey it has become.

Like the flower in the art:
small and fragile—
yet rooted in something intangible,
strong and grounded.

I paint,
and paint,
and paint—
like I should’ve always done.

Darkness can balance itself with light.
And light doesn’t need to overshadow dark.

It may be peculiar,
but for someone like me,
whose worlds slip away moment to moment,
I must thank thee—

for guiding me
to a home I once turned away from.

Everything I know and love
never changed.
Maybe it doesn't have to.
And maybe—
it’s not so scary.

No.
It is not scary.




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